


When You Can't Endure

by WolfesPuppies



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Wolfe is Not Okay.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfesPuppies/pseuds/WolfesPuppies
Summary: Wolfe stands motionless at the door, hand outstretched, in a stand-off with his own paranoia.In which Wolfe is not okay, and has a very bad day.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	When You Can't Endure

**Author's Note:**

> This is intense. Please read the tags, and stay safe!
> 
> This is neither of the things I'm meant to be writing, but it popped into my head the other day and wouldn't leave me alone. It's very stream-of-consciousness, and therefore hasn't been edited at all, which is even less than I normally do.
> 
> Thanks Maz for the cheerleading!

Wolfe stands motionless at the door, hand outstretched, in a stand-off with his own paranoia. The morning has been fine, great even, He'd woken with Santi and the sun, they'd had coffee and pastries for breakfast in the garden before getting ready and making their plans for the day. Wolfe had an appointment in the reading room, and after was going to go to the markets to get some fresh fish for their dinner. Santi had left not ten minutes before, and Wolfe had been fine then, excited about the research he's finally allowed to do again.

Maybe that's the reason he's now stood at the door, convinced there are soldiers standing on the other side, waiting silently to take him away, take him back to his cell. They'd have come after Santi had left, or maybe they had him too, and even now were spiriting him away to a cell of his own. Wolfe can't move, can't take a step in either direction because they'll hear him, they'll know he's in there and they'll burst in like they did before, no regard for the door or the house or him, he'll be shoved against the wall and searched and restrained and dragged out to a carriage and- No.

Wolfe shakes his head to stop his thoughts from spiralling down that particular hole, one he knows he can't drag himself out of. The paranoia he can deal with though. Giving up any plans of making it to the reading room today, he takes a step backwards and then stops, waiting to hear anything from outside. Step, wait. Step, wait, until he's walked in hesitant backwards steps all the way to their bedroom, safe at the back of the house. He whirls, opens the door, steps inside and slams it shut behind him all in one movement, before leaning his forehead on the door and waiting again, listening intently for any sound of the door opening. Nothing. _Of course there's nothing, you idiot_ he silently berates himself. _If there was they wouldn't have waited. They didn't last time._

With that stunningly unhelpful thought, Wolfe sits on the bed for a moment but that feels too exposed, too open, and so he draws the curtains and the blinds and sits on the floor between the bed and the wall, back against the chest of drawers. Protected on three sides, with a view of the door. The floor is warm beneath him, the wonders of underfloor heating, but the tiles are too hard, and it's not long before memories start to assault him again. Not his cell, that was always cold, but rather the room Qualls would take him to after the torture, with the food and the clean water and the warm bath and the questions. There were always questions.

He has just enough presence of mind to pull a couple of the pillows off the bed and prop one behind his back and one under his legs to cushion the floor a little, before he pulls his knees up, wraps his arms around his legs, and buries his head in the gap between them.

Wolfe thinks about reaching for his Codex once or twice, to cancel his appointment and to call Nic home, but as soon as he has the thought, his brain skitters sideways into _we'll be watching, Christopher, everything you write and sen_ d and he can’t do that, he can’t reveal his weaknesses, can’t let them know he’s lost in his own head because that makes him a target. Makes Nic a target. Once he gets as far as opening the book and setting stylus to paper, but manages to throw it as far away from himself as he can before he writes anything.

The room is stifling hot when the front door opens and Wolfe flinches violently, knocking his head on the chest of drawers. He hadn't been asleep, sleep is impossible, and it's too dangerous anyway, too exposed, leaves him too vulnerable.

"Chris? Chris, love?" Its Nic, of course its Nic, no one else would come in without knocking first - _unless they're using him to make you come out -_ but Wolfe can't talk, can't shout out to his beloved, and that's a development he hadn't anticipated. Sure, he’s been tiptoeing on the precipice of a panic attack all day, but he’s not actually fallen over the edge, hasn't actually lost control.

"Chris, are you here?" Nic’s voice is louder now, just outside the bedroom. "If you're in there, I'm coming in now."

The door opens after a few seconds, and Wolfe can’t help the whimper that escapes, tries to bury it in his arms but it fails.

"Oh Chris." Nic’s voice has gone from faintly confused and worried to soft and sympathetic, and Wolfe buries his head again as Nic rounds the bed to crouch in front of him.

"Chris, can you look at me?" There’s nothing Wolfe wants more, but he can’t quite convince his neck to unbend and his arms to unwind, his brain still vaguely convinced that if he does, he'll see other soldiers stood behind Nic, making him say those words, waiting to take them both away.

Wolfe is aware he’s acting like a child, hiding from monsters behind the door, and that is not a helpful thought as his brain shifts sideways and Qualls whispers in his ear, silky smooth and smug. "Don’t be such a child Christopher, you know it's going to happen anyway, just accept it" and suddenly the space that has felt so safe all day is too close, too confining, and now his escape route is cut off, there’s someone in front of him, and Wolfe _shatters._

Hands. There’s hands everywhere, dragging him and pulling him and he’s screaming and flailing but it’s inevitable and inexorable, he’s being dragged down the corridor to that room, and there’s nothing he can do but accept it and someone is frantically whispering I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry but that doesn't make sense why would Qualls be sorry he was never sorry and his fist makes contact with something hard and the hands loosen their grip for a moment and he lurches but his freedom doesn’t last long and now he’ll pay for that too and suddenly the door is opening and he’s falling to his hands and knees and he hunches over waiting for the blow or the kick or the whip hands curling in the grass-

Grass?

That’s enough to focus his mind, so he concentrates on the prickling beneath his palms, the mud underneath his fingernails, he has all ten fingernails, that’s good, and the sun is beating down on his neck, he can hear the carriages on the street outside, and this morning that had been a bad thing, but now it reminds him that he’s not in his cell anymore. Smell, yes, that’s good, clean cut grass and brackish mud and a hint of mint and rosemary in the background, so very different and worlds apart from the stones drenched in misery of the prison, and there’s a low keening that stops when Wolfe takes a shuddery breath in, and _oh, it’s him, how embarrassing_ , and his inner monologue sounds like himself again, prickly and prideful.

“Chris?”

That’s Nic, and he sounds _awful_ , like he’s on the very edge of tears, and that’s enough for Wolfe to finally, _finally_ , lift his head and look at his love, and what he sees drives the remaining panic to the back of his head, replaced by guilt because it’s his fault Nic looks like that, Wolfe is the one failing at holding himself together, and he’d been so _proud_ before, at being able to hold the panic at bay for most of the day. Despite that, it’s easier to breathe looking at Nic, even though his face is ashen, and he sounds like he’s on the edge of tears because he is. It’s easier looking at Nic, at his face, the stubble on his cheeks and the long line of his nose and the strong line of his jaw, and suddenly all Wolfe wants to do is touch him, feel Nic’s arms around him. Actually standing up is impossible, and so Wolfe crawls the few feet to Nic and slumps into his lap, cuddling as close as he can, smelling the familiar scent of his soap.

“I’m sorry Chris, I’m so sorry, I needed to get you out of there-“

Wolfe doesn’t want apologies now, but he still can’t talk, and his hands are shaking far too much to even attempt signing, but that’s okay, they’ve done this before, so he just presses his nose into Nic’s neck, nuzzling it slightly, and Nic finally wraps his arms around Wolfe.

Wolfe loses track of time again, sat in the garden curled around his love, but it’s easier this time, he doesn’t lose himself along the way, and soon the panic has almost entirely leeched away to leave just a bone-deep exhaustion, the tremors in his muscles from the strain of holding them so tense for so long. Nic can tell, he can always tell, and Wolfe doesn’t know whether to love that Nic can read him so well without words, or hate that it’s necessary for Nic to be able to read him so well without words, but that doesn’t matter right now because Nic is talking.

“Can you stand?”

Wolfe shakes his head instantly. Standing is out of the question, almost as impossible as talking feels right now.

“That’s okay. I’m going to pick you up now.” Wolfe tightens his grip on Nic’s neck, and there’s only a little bit of a wobble as they make it upright. The house is cooler than outside, and it feels pleasant on Wolfe’s skin, cooling the sweat he hadn’t realised covers him in a fine sheen. He shivers, and of course Nic notices.

“Would you like some tea?”

It takes a few seconds for the sentence to register, but when it does, tea sounds wonderful, and Wolfe nods.

“The bedroom?”

The very thought of returning to their bedroom has the panic rising again for some inexplicable reason. _Just another thing to get over, like not being able to open the fucking door._ Wolfe tightens his grip and buries his head into Nic’s neck, trying to hide a whimper.

“Okay, not the bedroom.” Nic reassures. “The sofa?”

The sofa. Yes, the sofa is good, Wolfe can cuddle close to Nic on the sofa, there’s blankets and cushions, and Wolfe manages a nod.

“Will you be okay while I make the tea?”

This one takes a little more consideration. He won’t be able to see Nic in the kitchen from the sofa, but he’ll be able to hear him, and Wolfe has to decide if that will be enough. He frees one hand from where it’s tangled in Nic’s collar and manages to sign ‘Talk?” with one hand, or at least he hopes he’s managed to sign that.

“Of course. I’ll even sing.”

That manages to force a laugh out of Wolfe, more a deep huff of air than anything else, but it’s more than he thought he’d be able to do for hours yet. Nic is a notoriously poor singer, one of the few things he can’t do well.

“But first I need to get you some clean clothes.” Nic says as he gently lowers Wolfe onto the sofa, and Wolfe looks down at himself in surprise, only to find he is in fact still dressed to leave the house, suit, robe, boots and all. His hair isn’t neatly tied back anymore, half of it has escaped the band and hangs around his face, there’s grass stains on his trouser knees and palms, the toes of his boots are scuffed and dirty, and his fingernails are black with mud. Being in such a state would usually be unacceptable, but even the thought of the effort required to clean himself up is exhausting, and so clean clothes will have to do.

True to his word, Nic sings as he fetches clothes and makes tea, something in Italian that Wolfe’s brain is too tired to try and translate, and it’s flat and off-key and awful and the most wonderful thing Wolfe’s ever heard. The panic still rises when Nic leaves his sight, but it’s manageable, and Wolfe tamps it down, squeezing his hands into fists to stop himself from scratching at suddenly itchy scars. When Nic kneels in front of Wolfe again, it’s like a balm to his soul, at least until he sees the red mark high on Nic’s cheek, quickly purpling, and Wolfe remembers hitting something in his terror. He stretches out a shaking hand to touch it, but Nic intercepts it before he makes contact.

“It’s okay Chris.”

_No it’s not, I hit you, I hurt you, don’t make excuses._ But Wolfe still can’t speak, and he cowers against the sofa instead, the guilt from before rising until it fills his chest and his throat and he’s choking on it, making an awful gasping sound as he tries to breathe but can’t-

“Christopher, breathe.” That’s an order, orders are good, he can follow those, and breathing is good, yes he should do that, in and out, it’s so simple even a baby can do it, but that veers too closely to the fault lines from earlier, and Wolfe does not want to fall down them again, so he breathes, in and out, and then it catches, and hitches, and suddenly he’s sobbing, curled in on himself, arms crossed as though he can hold himself together by force and Nic’s arms are around him, and Nic is saying something familiar, _you will heal, and I will be here, every step of the way. I'll be with you. When you think you can't endure, I will help. Believe in me, if you can't believe in yourself._

Those words have carried Wolfe through a lot, through his recovery, through meeting his thrice-damned postulant class, the journey to Rome to rescue Thomas, the entire mess that was Philadelphia, his return to prison and release, the arena, and the fight for the Library. They could carry him through this.

It feels like an age before Wolfe manages to stop, and even longer before he can uncurl himself, and he’s even more of a mess than he was before, but Nic is there, Nic is always there, with a clean cloth and clean clothes and somehow Wolfe is lying against Nic’s chest, wearing loose trousers and a shirt, his hair tied back properly. Wolfe feels drained empty, like there’s nothing left of him, only Nic to hold him together until he can rebuild the broken pieces of himself, and all this because he couldn’t make himself open the front door that morning.


End file.
